


let the future fall into place

by fruity (benzedrine)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzedrine/pseuds/fruity
Summary: It's easy enough to let yourself be saved. The real challenge is wanting it.





	let the future fall into place

**Author's Note:**

> this is nothing like what i was imagining i'd end up with after writing this, but i think i like it. i've tried writing things like this before and always given up, but i think i've fallen onto a new style of writing recently and maybe that will end up lending itself to this fic. please note that this fic may contain potentially upsetting descriptions of eating disorders, and possibly even graphic ones, there are also slight references of suicidal ideation. the title is taken from tyler, the creator. hope you enjoy this!

We've been building up to this. I can feel it in the way he kisses me, the way his hands skim over my hipbones and my ribs and my spine while his wickedly clever mouth is making its journey around my body, kissing and licking and tasting me. I know what he wants, and I know what he'll say to get it, and still, I let him take that deep breath before taking my fingers into his mouth. Still, I let him lean back and spread his legs, one hand loosely gripping his cock. Still, I let him swat my hand away as I reach between his legs. Still, I let him say, "You can fuck me, if you want," and I feel myself letting out a breath I hadn't known I was holding; we hadn't done that before. Still, I let him follow it up with, "But only if you eat something."

Okay, I say. Okay. If he notices the way it comes out, a shuddery, breath of a word, shaking at the edges, he doesn't let on. Instead, he watches as I slick up my fingers, lets me push the full length of me into him.

He makes me a piece of toast afterwards, leaves me in his room to have a fag, leaves me to think about the full weight of the decision I've just made.

I eat the warm piece of bread dry. It scratches at my insides and leaves me feeling queasy, but I do it. If I forget to stick my fingers down my throat afterwards, it has nothing to do with Harry bloody Potter.

*

The next time, he asks again, and I've got him so close to coming just from my fingers, it would be so easy to refuse. Just a slight shift in the angle and he wouldn't even _need_ what he's offering up. "I'll let you tie me up, as well," he says, "But only if you eat something after." The way he says it, so easy, so casual makes me want it even more. I'm dizzy with it, or maybe it's the hunger, but I move fast and summon one of my old Slytherin ties, and then he's bound to my bed.

We finish quickly, so quickly, and then he's throwing me an apple from that awful muggle contraption he uses to keep food cold, all the while searching for a yoghurt. It's almost endearing, the way Harry forgets he's a wizard sometimes, but it wouldn't be me reminding him. Especially not while he's trying to fill me up and take away my control in so different and terrifying a way from how I do it with him.

*

The third time, I almost, almost let it happen again. I feel so close to the edge, so close to a breaking point I hadn’t known I was approaching. And then he looks up at me, ready to start in with that sad smile and those earnest eyes, and Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t.

“I don’t fucking need your pity, Potter,” I hear myself spit out. I know it’s the wrong thing to say, because the way he looks at me after I say it is so impossibly miserable and angry and hurt I just want to move closer to him and tangle my fingers in the mess of his hair while we kiss and kiss and kiss.

“It’s not about pity, Draco,” he says, “It’s about you _hurting_ yourself, killing yourself, even. I care about you, and you’re sick. I’m just trying to do what I can. I don’t want to – can’t be your crutch, but if that’s what it’ll take –”

“Fuck you.” I hear myself hiss, and then I turn on my heel, so grateful that this time we were at his, so thankful for the fact that I can leave all idea of something being broken and wrong with me in Harry Potter’s home.

*

He comes back, he comes back and I knew he would. He steps out of my fireplace, and when I stand up too fast, the room spinning and my vision obscured by dark spots, and _oh_ , Potter’s arm shoots out, his reflexes far less sluggish and tired than mine. He steadies me, and his hand is so hot and dark against the cold, white skin of my own arm.

It all happens a bit fast after that, or maybe it was a bit slow. Either way, we end up on my sofa, me straddling Harry and we haven’t done this before. I could say I let him fuck me, but despite the way the whole thing transpired, I think it was he who let _me_ fuck him.

It’s when I’m curled up, small, and shivering and trying desperately to leech off of some of Potter’s warmth that it occurs to me.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.” My voice comes out small and fragile, and I think it must sound something like what Potter sees when he looks at me.

“I know,” he says, his hand running gently up and down my arm, “I know. But I’ll be here when you are.”

*

He stays with me for a few weeks. Sometimes we talk; sometimes he gets me to eat. We never fuck. I know he wants to, I see the way he looks at me like I’m something he needs. He never tries to, though. And I’m grateful, because when I finally manage to say to him, “Take me to St. Mungo’s,” the answering smile I get holds such promise and feeling I think I might want what he had never asked me for. To be loved.

*

It’s not easy, and I can’t say I was expecting it to be. There are days where I feel so lost and powerless it feels all too easy to miss a meal or to rush off to a bathroom. I haven’t, yet. A split-second after the first thought slips into my mind, a second reminds me why I shouldn’t. I chose this. I chose to live. After all the times I could have so easily given up, given into the ease with which death would come, I had chosen life. After several months spent in-patient, and another several spent out-patient, I had chosen Harry.

It was never going to be easy, but it was okay. The future would fall into place.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are much appreciated.


End file.
